


Yeah, Maybe I'm Selfish (I Want You To Myself, I Can't Help It)

by casualcoterie



Series: I Be Like the Lyric and She Be the Beat [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Babies, Domestic Fluff, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3757366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcoterie/pseuds/casualcoterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana contemplates kidnapping the neighbor's toddler. Brittany just wants to make it through the night without having to steam clean the entire apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yeah, Maybe I'm Selfish (I Want You To Myself, I Can't Help It)

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted Santana + a bb so I did a thing.

Santana’s not 100% sure how it happened but somehow she managed to convince her sleep-deprived neighbor who works third shift to let her take care of her especially mobile toddler while she tries to sleep for more than three consecutive hours. She read somewhere that longterm sleep deprivation is kind of like being drunk all the time, which explains why the poor woman agreed so readily.

“Just make sure you throw the deadbolt,” Deanna says as she hands Santana her progeny and a diaper bag. “She figured out she can stand on things to reach the doorknobs.”

That’s probably why Santana found the kid wobbling around the hallway in the first place. Honestly, she was just going to bring her back to her mom until the kid started babbling excitedly and chugged over, throwing her tiny, fat arms around her legs and doing that weird, bouncy thing that babies who are just learning what knees are for do. 

“Is there anything I should know? Allergies or-”

Deanna struggles to not look as exhausted as she clearly feels, but the way she stifles a yawn every few breaths gives her away. “No allergies or anything. Aside from the climbing she’s my angel. But, seriously. The climbing. Climbing and doors. That’s her entire thing. If she gets to be too much you can put her in the bathroom and she’ll open and close the door for at least half an hour. But if you forget to use a lock she can’t reach on the front door she’ll be halfway to Central Park before you realize it.” She yawns, again, and her daughter claps like it’s a circus trick. “My mom comes over to take care of her at night. I have to leave to make my shift in-” Deanna pauses and checks her watch “- four hours, so you won’t have to worry about watching her any later than that, I promise.”

“It’s fine, me and Britt don’t have any plans tonight.” _I hope_ , she thinks. Deanna gives her a thankful smile and a scrap of paper with five different emergency numbers on it before letting Santana leave.

“Brittany’s gonna be so surprised,” she singsongs as she goes back to her own apartment and flips the locks behind her. The baby grabs at her with a slightly sticky hand from her place on Santana’s hip, reaching up as high as she can to stick her fingers in the older woman’s moving mouth. “Maybe when she gets home she’ll say we can keep you, and then Lifetime can make a new straight to tv true crime movie about us! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Her charge appears to have no strong opinions one way or the other and seems more interested in hooking her fingers behind Santana’s comparatively large teeth. Santana bites down gently and gets a tiny flash of cream-colored nibblers for her trouble. There’s a pang in her chest. “Ohhh noooooo,” she trills to the girl in her arms. “Auntie Santana is in so much trouble.”

\---

The last three hours have been kind of a not fun blur and it’s left her bleary, so when Brittany goes through the familiar motions of opening her front door only for it not to actually open when she puts her weight against it, she ends up smacking her face into it instead. “Ow.”

“Brittany? Hang on, I’m coming!”

Brittany rubs her nose, confused. Santana’s bad at even managing to close the door all the way most of the time, so both locks being on is unusual. “Is Quinn here? If you started without me this time I’m gonna be cranky,” she says through the door as metal clicks on the other side.

Santana opens the door and steps back to let her in, twisting with it as it moves inward. “Are we joking about that now?”

“I am,” she says as she moves to drop her laden shoulder bag on the coffee table. “You still can’t.” There’s a bag covered in pastel colored animals on the couch. For a moment Brittany is pretty sure she’s hallucinating, but then there’s a high pitched shriek and Santana is laughing and Brittany turns around to see her wife with a kid in her hands that was definitely not there when she left this morning. “Whaaaat is that?”

Santana smirks, shaking her hips to the beat of a song over the speakers and making her little armload burble wetly at the motion. “A baby.” Her wife comes close and leans over the baby to kiss Brittany hello, and it’s super weird to feel it fidgeting between them. Grinning with her kitten smile, she adds, “I stole her. She’s ours now.”

Her goofy girl makes the weight of the day melt off her shoulders. She laughs, really laughs, and gives the kid a pat on the head before moving to the kitchen area. Her stomach is rumbly, but she is pretty sure that cooking might be out tonight. Between the two of them they can manage, but by herself she usually forgets to read labels and Santana sees verbs like “simmer” and “brown” as mere suggestions - her impatience usually makes all her dishes cajun whether they’re supposed to be or not. An “abducted” baby seems like the kind of distraction that might warrant ordering in to avoid disaster. Executive decision made, she grabs a sheaf of takeout menus.

Santana’s on the couch with her feet propped on the edge of the coffee table, giving the baby a backrest as she holds onto Santana’s fingers and jumps on her belly. Brittany collapses next to them, leaning her head on Santana’s shoulder and shuffling through their options. A tiny hand smacks her in the forehead.

“Ah! Who is that? Who is that? Say ‘who dis bitch?’. Say ‘you betta step off afores I end you’.” Brittany rolls her eyes at the combination of baby talk and Lima Heights swagger. The overly excited kid flails wildly as Santana talks to her, slapping and rubbing her hand all over Brittany’s face. “Say ‘she got a new woman now bitch, she traded you in for a younger model’.”

Brittany is struck again with the realization that she married a mad woman. It was definitely the best decision she ever made. “Oh my god. Don’t pretend like you could do better. She cute, but she ain’t that cute,” Brittany says, grabbing the baby’s hand and blowing a raspberry into her palm.

“You hear this? How you gon’ let her talk about us like that? It’s ok, we know she just salty. Do you see her teeth?” Santana asks, and it takes Brittany a moment to realize she’s talking directly to her now. 

“What?”

Santana sways the kid in a dip from one side to the other, making it laugh riotously as the whole world tips back and forth. “Look, look! She’s got four little teeth in the front! Fucking cutie!” Her wife squeals like she found the last Karen Millen in her size. The toddler responds in kind, shrieking with gusto as if she’s trying to be Santana’s personal echo.

Brittany can’t help but grin at them both. “So what’d you name her?”

“Alma.”

Brittany waits for the rest of the joke. “You’re serious? Baby, you know I love you and I love your Abuela, but we are not naming our daughter Alma.”

“What? Why not?” Santana asks, curious, as she tugs a tiny hand to her lips and kisses it sweetly. The tiny fist pushes at her lips as the baby tries to fit the whole thing in Santana’s mouth.

She shakes her head, poking Not Alma’s pudgy tummy with two fingers. “Because I’m pretty sure that your grandmother would use some kind of freaky old people magic to come back after death and possess our daughter if we did.” 

Santana scoffs. “Rude. So what are you gonna name her then?”

Brittany tosses her head and flips her hair over her shoulder before settling back into Santana’s side. “Brittany Junior, obviously.”

There’s a rasping noise. “You hear her? This is why Auntie Brittany doesn’t get to name any of our pets anymore. She thinks I would let a child of mine go through her school career with a name like BJ Lopez-Pierce. Bitch be crazy.” Not Brittany Jr. bends and straightens her legs excitedly, her little bottom wiggling like a mimicry of Santana’s earlier motions. “Get it girl!” Santana cheers.

“What’s its actual name?”

“Sarita,” Santana informs her, “The smartest and funniest Sarita I ever did meet!”

“I think I prefered Alma. Do you want Indian or Puerto Rican? I’m leaning towards Puerto Rican, I want something fried.” She throws the rest of the pamphlets on the table. Sarita sees it and reaches for them, whining.

Blowing playfully over the baby’s ear, Santana easily dissuades her from complaining. “Get something soft and not so spicy for her.”

Brittany blinks slowly. “What, like… steamed rice? Didn’t you steal some baby food too?” She digs through the bag that got shoved aside and pulls out a small compartmentalized box filled with finger snacks.

“She’s having an adventure today! She should get a chance to try some new food too! If she doesn’t like any of it we’ll feed her the boring white people food.” Santana lifts Sarita in the air and gives her a tiny shake. Drool drips from the baby’s mouth and onto her shirt, but she just giggles about it. Brittany wrinkles her nose. “And I want chicken,” Santana adds. “Just surprise me.”

When she finishes ordering she sinks back on the couch, back into Santana again. “You haven’t said anything about your audition today,” she says, gently. Sarita is losing steam fast, resting her head on Santana’s clavicle even as her little legs jolt her whole body up and down from time to time. Santana pats her back soothingly and sighs.

“I dunno. I read for the part but I don’t think I wow’d them. If they cast me at all I’ll probably be the loud friend that dies third anyway. My talent agency asked me to make sure my headshot was up to date, so I might have some extra work for a few days.” Santana turns to look at her, and Brittany kisses her shoulder but stays quiet. “I like singing, but I like acting too. Do you think I’m being stupid for not just focusing on the record deal?”

“I think you need to stop calling my wife stupid,” she starts, carefully. “And I think that you don’t have to worry about which you choose, just that you do your best at whichever you’re doing.”

Santana laughs, lightly. “Thanks Sensei. That’s super helpful.”

Sarita smiles, a little, at the sound and feel of the laughter, her mouth open and leaking all over Santana’s clothes; their soft, dark hair mixing together. She watches Brittany with sleepy eyes. Her little fist rests on Santana’s bare neck, and their skin is almost the same shade of brown. Brittany strokes her own hand along Santana’s and down Sarita’s subtly shifting back. 

“I mean it. Whatever you do, do your best. You’re amazing San, and I know you are an amazing singer and an amazing actress and you can do both at the same time. Pick the one that you think you can do the best job of right now, and blow everyone away. I’ll support you no matter what you want to do - and I mean really support you. Not, like, just give you super empowering speeches. I mean if you want to focus on acting and all you can get are a few jobs as an extra for awhile, I can handle everything. Moneywise.” She tries to be oblique and Santana doesn’t press. The work on her IPs is still in progress and neither of them like to bring that migraine home. 

Her wife sighs, heavy and tired. Minutes pass as they playfully bump hands over the trail of the baby’s spine as she dozes quietly. “What if…” Santana starts and then stops. “What if I just wanna stay at home and have a bajillion babies?”

It makes her smile, because she knows Santana enough to know that there is absolutely no way she’d go full on Duggar like that - not least of all because their style is so bad that it’s might actually qualify as negative fashion. “You can do that too, but, like… save the babies for a few years from now. The best part of getting married young is I get to have you all to myself for _at least_ ten or fifteen years first. I wanna be able to go on vacations and have sex whenever we want for awhile. Deal?”

“Deal,” Santana agrees with a smile, sealing the pact with a kiss. Then, “You wanna take a picture and post it and make everyone think we really stole a kid?”

“YES. That is exactly what I want to do.”

\---

By the time food arrives, Brittany’s post is getting way more traction than either of them anticipated. Santana kept Sarita’s face turned away from the shot, even though Brittany insisted that all babies look enough alike that nobody would be able to tell who she was anyway, but the tiny body between them was enough to send her strangely fanatical facebook following into a fervor, especially since there were photos posted there of them on their honeymoon just a few weeks ago with bikinis and a distinct lack of pregnancy bellies. Brittany reads her favorite retweets aloud as Santana feeds Sarita, who is excited and bouncy again from her power nap.

“Nom nom nom,” she says with exaggerated mouth movements, guiding a bit of mashed chickpeas and plantain towards Sarita’s face. Sarita turns away with her expression all twisted up in a sulky pout. Sighing loudly, Santana slowly reverses course, moving the mouthful to her own face with excessive excitement. Sarita watches her suspiciously before reaching out and snatching it from Santana’s fingers, mooshing it in her palm so that some of it falls onto the couch. The rest makes it into her mouth though, and if Santana had to put a name to her expression she would almost call it contemplative. She looks at her hand, still covered in some leftover mush, and presses it to the general area of her mouth, gumming at her own wrist until a bit of the remnants makes it to her tongue by mostly accident.

“There’s a message board that is convinced we hid a pregnancy and they’re trying to figure out who the baby daddy is. Highest guy in the poll is some dude in one of those vampire tv shows,” Brittany informs her from the floor, tablet next to her plate on the coffee table as she eats and browses at the same time.

She scoffs. “Some guy? If we were going to get a non-anonymous donor I think we could do better than some d-lister.”

“I think you overestimate our popularity, babe.”

“I correctly estimate _your_ popularity. Plus, I don’t have to be famous to get a famous dude to put a baby in me, you feel me?”

Brittany waits until she’s shoveled in a mouthful of food before she mumbles out a quiet _gross_ and Santana knocks her knees into her back.

While Brittany trolls her social media accounts, Santana carefully parcels out bites of food for Sarita and Sarita promptly destroys them with her clumsy grip, insistent on feeding herself but still shaky in the fine motor skill department. She finds herself more than a little excited for dessert. There’s flan, and she really hopes the baby likes it.

“Tina sent me a message asking if we did actually steal a baby.”

“I’d say to tell her to go fuck herself, but it’s a fair question. I’m still debating it.” She tickles Sarita’s tummy and the girl gibbers happily at the attention. There’s slices of avocado in her order, and she gives Sarita a bit. The look she gives at the taste is pretty confused, but she quickly figures out that it is good for more than just eating. “What are you doing pretty girl? Your skin is already soft, you don’t need a facemask. We are gonna have to give you a serious clean-up before your grandma comes to get you, aren’t we? Otherwise I’ll never be able to talk your mommy into letting you come visit again.”

Santana mostly ignores the questioning noise filtered through a mouthful of yellow rice that originates from roughly knee height. “You should tell Auntie Brittany that having you over makes it way less likely that one day she’ll come home and Auntie Snixx will have adopted a dozen teacup poodles. Or that she’ll actually steal some stranger’s kid. You should also tell Auntie Brittany to stop being greedy and share some of her food.”

“You wanted chicken,” Brittany accuses, mouth overly full once again.

“And now we want some of whatever you have. What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is also mine, that’s marriage Britt.” 

Her wife swallows and pushes her takeout container to the far edge of the table, out of reach. Casually, Santana plops Sarita into Brittany’s now empty lap, and Brittany recoils from the mixture of fluid and food paste on most of her face and flailing hands. Brittany watches her out of the corner of her eye, prepared to body block if it comes down to it. It’s a playful standoff, but Santana plays to win.

Slowly, she slinks down behind Brittany on the floor, pressed close between her body and the couch. “Well,” she stage whispers to Sarita, who is far more interested in the bits of food on her hands than either of them right now, “since Auntie Brittany is eating so much she’ll probably be pretty full tonight. Too full to eat her favorite bedtime snack. But that’s ok, I’ve still got my Hita-”

She doesn’t even get the name of the toy out before Brittany is folding like a cheap lawn chair. “Uncle! You win! Don’t say it!” Brittany cups her hand over the back of Sarita’s hand and leans across the table to pull her tray closer and Santana presses a firm, fond kiss behind her ear to reward her.

“You are so weak.”

Brittany sticks out her tongue and stretches to grab Santana’s food off the couch, setting it next to her own for easier access and then tearing a pastele into a sloppy half and shoving the largest hunk into her mouth. “I used to make fun of Puck when he whined about all those vibrators the MILFs he hooked up with had, but I totally understand now. That thing gives me a complex. I can’t wait until the motor burns out.”

“Don’t be jealous, baby. I don’t love it like I love you. You know it’s better with feelings.” Brittany laughs and Sarita laughs too. Then Sarita gets distracted by the colorful food all in arms reach and grabs a handful of yellow rice and red beans, gamely trying to bring the lot to her mouth and spilling half of it onto the rug. Brittany offers her a spoon and she sticks that in her mouth as well before thinking better of it and slamming the damp utensil against the edge of the table loudly, giggling all the while.

“Ten years, _minimum_.”


End file.
